


Twice More

by Pacifia



Series: Adventures_in_Narnia_2021 [2]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Angst, Dreaming, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29235594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pacifia/pseuds/Pacifia
Summary: "There are always two."
Series: Adventures_in_Narnia_2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2143263
Kudos: 6





	Twice More

There are always two.

Two skies. Two hidden suns. Two patches of grey shrouds. Two drops of rain. Two trees. Two brown trunks. Two butterflies emerging out of their cocoons. Two crows cawing. Two pairs of feet. Two stumbles to reach. Two lakes. Two reflections in the clear, red and blue water.

They are the same. They are true. Yet neither is.

Edmund opens his eyes.

The black forest is shadowed, trees clustered together, air chilled, crows cawing ominously, and the swirling clouds growling overhead. Beautifully faint shines of light fall upon the brown trees to give them a faded tint of pink when the blossoming red sun rises above the horizon. Hollow, round eyes staring at him, blinking, necks bobbing to look more closely at him. Feathers shower down as the crows fly from their perch.

Edmund shrugs.

His neck twists as he glances at the pinkish clearing, reddened with the pools of blood.

Another one is forming now. It's crimson. First only a drop comes, because the knife has not dug that deep. A swift slash. And then it rains down. The drop is expanding itself now, as it gets supplied. Edmund is mesmerized by it, but it is ruined, as the young victim falls into his own draining life.

He frowns.

But the fair hand soothes his cheek, and he smiles, wishing he could simply melt into the touch. The hand is on his wrist now, a voice bold yet so very gentle urging him to follow, a different, even whiter hand—as it is not inked with the beautiful red—beckoning to him.

Edmund gives the clearing one last glance before obliging to the voice.

The three children lie there, in the forest of red, hit by the ever-faded light of the sun that remains hidden, always hidden. Their stony eyes staring at him without any life, any purpose, any message in them. And then his steps take him away.

The crows fly. They will feed.

Rain. Black rain will shower from the death clouds. He knows. A drop falls in his open eye, trails down his cheek in a mockery. The hand is still on his wrist, the skin as white as his, but more beautiful. Lips he wishes he could taste forming words that make sense to him but he can't remember. He is approaching the lake now. But first a tree passes him. Brown and pink. A white cocoon. A blue butterfly breaking out of the tight shell it had rested in. For weeks. Metamorphosis. It crawls out on its line-thin legs, opening its wings, fluttering them, testing. And then it flies, above him in an arch. His eyes follow it, but then those eyes are in front of him.

Blue. Winter blue.

And he continues.

He stumbles in the path to the lake. Once. Only once. Then then the fair hand has his to balance him. As it always does.

The lake is oceanic blue. The forest here is abandoned.

Edmund doesn't mind.

The lips then catch his, the fulfilling desire bursting inside him. Everything erupts into pleasure. The only thing that is apparent is the taste of many flavors, love, affection, purity, need, lust. The snowy hands are caressing his hair. Trailing down his neck. More brushes.

His neck snaps.

Edmund opens his eyes.

A wish to run away. A transcending fear dawning rapidly on him. Panic devouring him. Screams rising up in his throat. Not even a whimper falls out of his lips.

His eyes shut and his heart screams in agony as the littlest one falls. The crows caw enthusiastically. Then the hands are leaving soothing strokes on the girl's hair, the scarlet lips whispering words of a painless end. A knife appears. A hitched breath as the blade disappears into the flesh.

Then nothing. Only the crows' cawing.

This time, he is numb.

And then the hands are on the eldest one's lips, preventing him from uttering even a word of agony. A small dagger that should be familiar is handled by the white hands. The fingers toy with the blade, and then it thrusts into the young man's chest. His back arches. Muffled screams and gasps. Silent tears leaking. Another stab, but this time the victim doesn't feel. An obscene fall to the pinkish grass.

The hands claim his and he is being dragged. An animal taken to be slayed.

The crows fly again. To feed.

Edmund's legs are spasmodic. Hands convulsing into balls and then uncurling. Thoughts of loss plaguing him. His eyes fly. He finds a cocoon. White as sorrow. It breaks. Something is crawling out. Blue wings and the thinnest legs. It flies.

Edmund cannot look at it. He stumbles to the lake.

He falls. The lake reflects. The boy in the lake is frightened, dizzy from the recent memory, shaking and convulsing.

And then he sees a blade, protruding out of the pallid neck that holds up the boy's head. The water is turning red. The boy is fading, out of reach. He extends a hand, but feels only the hot blood and the cold water. They mix so well.

He drowns.

Edmund opens his eyes.

And screams. And screams, and screams, and screams.

"Edmund!" comes a terrified voice from the other side of the room. Edmund stops screaming. His brother is staggering to get to him, endeavoring not to fall. Then hands are on his cheeks, not white, no, they're tan. "Are you alright? God, Edmund, you scared me!"

He didn't mean to though.

The door is flying open as Peter's arms engulf him, quiet words in his ear.

"Peter? Edmund?" is the voice that Edmund leaves Peter to hear better. "Boys, are you fine? I heard some—"

Their father oomphs as he throws his entire weight at him, clinging to his neck like a monkey. The voice Edmund thinks is heavenly giggles and sturdy arms gather him up, arranging him so he'd be more comfortable. He buries his face in the junction of his father's neck, sobbing, and sobbing.

Peter scooches on the bed to allow their father to sit with his youngest son still in his arms. "Hush, hush now," a whisper tickles his ear. He only sobs. "What happened, Eddie? What scared you?"

"White. White hands," he manages. "Red. And crows. Crows!"

"I know, a nightmare," his dad says laughingly. "That's alright, sport, dreams aren't the truth."

"But it was real!" he shrieks, making dad flinch.

Father pulls away, cradling his face. "I have to check on the girls. But don't you worry, your brother will fight away the dreams, won't you, Peter?" Peter nods hastily, smiling. Father begins to stand, but Edmund tugs jerkily at his sleeve.

"Daddy, no! Please!" he begs.

His dad smiles then, and sits beside him again. "Alright. I'll tell you what. If you don't know whether you're dreaming, just count to ten. If you can make it to ten, you're not dreaming. Try it now," he suggests.

Edmund nods. "One," he whispers, and dad encourages him with a nod of his head. "Two, and three, and four, and five," he continues. "And six, and seven, and eight, and nine, and—" He smiles at his brother, and father. "—ten."

"That's it, that's it, Ed," says Father. "Now, go to sleep. Peter will watch over you." Peter nods just as hastily.

He smiles and lies down, eyes closing.

A sharp pain in his breast, the sinister smile hovering over him. The golden ends dripping with water, the tanned skin with a splash of blood. He coughs.

"Ed!"

Death ambles closer.

"Edmund!"

And closer.

"Ed, come on!"

Until it takes him.

And Edmund opens his eyes.


End file.
